


A Piña Colada, Heavy On The Piñas

by whaleofatime



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily Dynamics (DCU), Bruce and Jason on a roadtrip in the Caribbean, Case Fic, Gen, How to build a relationship in the time of pandemics, Minor Injuries, Reconciliation in the midst of a trafficking ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23372743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaleofatime/pseuds/whaleofatime
Summary: Batman decides to recruit some backup for work on a trafficking ring based in Havana, Cuba. He hadn't expected the case to be anything out of the ordinary, and he certainly hadn't expected Jason of all people volunteering to come help, but he learns that it's probably fair to say that we're all living in interesting times right now.Or,Through costumed vigilanteism, Hawaiian shirts, and corned beef dinners, Jason and Bruce rebuild a relationship a day at the beach at a time.(Charity request from kuro49, now with a podfic by Vodka112!)
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 34
Kudos: 238





	A Piña Colada, Heavy On The Piñas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuro49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/gifts).



It doesn’t happen often, that Batman needs to work a case outside of Gotham for long enough a stretch that Bruce Wayne has to announce an impromptu vacation and actually follow through with it. There are whispers that human traffickers in the Caribbean have decided to crawl up the East Coast, with Gotham now a hotspot of terrible activity, and after months of trying to put the fear of Batman into the gangs with little abatement, it’s time for a vacation right at the source. Things are getting tumultuous, and time’s of the essence. If he doesn’t step in now, he won’t be able to for months, probably, and that settles it.

Bruce Wayne is going to be in the Bahamas, baby, and Batman’s going to be busy in Cuba while they’re down there. 

As has become tradition by now, any longish-term work trip abroad means that someone has to come with him. You almost die of three gunshot wounds and a side of dysentery one time in Zambia while hunting meta-animal poachers, and suddenly you aren’t allowed to travel internationally without a chaperone. If the villains of the city could see him now, oh.

(He still hares off on missions that are far, far too dangerous for any of his brood, despite their vehement protests about how he defines their competencies and his need for support, but that is one of the many, many hills Bruce would be happy to die on.)

Bruce clears his schedule for a good two weeks and sends a memo off to the League, before pulling up the family chat group up on the mainframe. The single most secure and heavily-encrypted messaging service in the world, more impenetrable even than the system outfitted for the Justice League, and the five most recent messages have Dick spamming eggplants and Damian growing increasingly incoherent with rage while maintaining perfect punctuation.

It’s in response to a photoshoot Bruce did earlier in the year for a charity event. He’s mostly naked and it’s mostly tasteful, right up until Dick drops the eggplants, but better to get phallic symbols from his children than from the spam his corporate Twitter gets, probably.

Maybe.

Time to recruit a chaperone; it’s only 3 in the morning, he imagines everyone’s awake, except for Alfred. Alfred never goes on his trips with him, anyways, so it doesn’t really matter.

(Tim had said it was like how countries don’t let their presidents and vice presidents fly in the same plane; losing one is unbearable, losing both is apocalyptic. Bruce thinks it’s terribly flattering to be the vice to Alfred’s stoic leadership, even if he would never say it.)

B: One week trip to Cuba to look into the Contreras trafficking ring. Pick amongst yourselves who will be joining me.

Every single time he lives in the vain hope that all of them will have a serious discussion to figure out schedules and weigh the merits and demerits of their skill sets against what’s needed for the mission at hand. 

Every single time, the person who accompanies him is the person who replies first.

Bruce is completely and utterly unsurprised to see Stephanie, Tim, Dick, Cass, and Damian typing, even though Damian at least should have been asleep hours ago.

Bruce _is_ surprised by who’s first past the post.

J(ustin) T(imberlake): FIRST FUCKERS 

That is, indeed, a first. 

Maintaining his calm is touch and go for a minute there, but peace comes back, eventually, along with the absolute revelation that Jason has _willingly_ chosen to accompany him for the next two weeks. He would think it was an emergency signal, a call for help, but Jason hadn’t used the monkey-with-its-hands-over-its-mouth picture, so.

It’s so idiotic, they’ve been somewhat reconciled for years at this point, but in the dark of the cave Bruce cannot resist the giddy, hysterical smile that takes him by the mouth. 

-

They plan to take the private jet to the Bahamas, and a couple of hours before departure Bruce takes great care to be seen having lunch obnoxiously at a luxury hotel. He’s kitted out in a Hawaiian shirt and flipflops despite the grey miserable snow decorating the streets of Gotham, all for maximum annoyingness. According to their agreement, Jason will be squirreling himself aboard the jet as the pilot; he’s likely already there. Bruce, meanwhile, jovially requests a takeaway neapolitan baked Alaska despite the fact that:

  1. Le Chevalier does _not_ do takeout
  2. The concept of a baked Alaska is probably offensive enough for the head pastry chef to consider ritual disembowelment to preserve her honour
  3. Ice cream is far, far too pedestrian for such an establishment



For better or for worse, billionaires do tend to get their way, and after tipping the wait staff four times their monthly income to see them through the near future, Bruce wades through dirty snow to get to Alfred and the car waiting to take him to the airport.

It might have been meant as an insult, that his dessert order is in a beautiful glass container wrapped up in aluminium foil to look like a crinkly swan from a dodgy buffet, but he mostly just thinks it’s charming.

He hopes Jason will, too.

-

“You took your sweet ass time.”

Bruce doesn’t dignify that with a response, placing the ice cream-laden swan on Jason’s lap. He looks painfully normal in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks, hair neatly tucked under a pilot’s cap. Not for the first time, nor for the last, Bruce wonders what it would have been like to successfully raise a single child to be happy and normal. If Damian or Tim called him tomorrow and said they wanted to become accountants, even his experienced investigative mind can’t predict how he’d react.

“It’s dessert,” he says, instead of talking about accountants. “It’s good to see you, Jason.”

Jason squints at him, before tipping his jaunty little hat. “Welcome aboard, Master Wayne. It’s a pleasure to have you flying with us.” He’s pitch-perfect as a courteous pilot, though the feral does come out a little when he rips the swan’s head off and eats the ice cream meringue like it’s a hamburger, held in his hands and staining his pristine white gloves.

Bruce is very proud of himself. An entire 3 minutes already, and they haven’t argued yet. “Thank you for agreeing to help on this mission,” he says with studied casualness as Jason bites off a hearty chunk and makes a pleased sound when he hits ice cream. He doesn’t ask _why are you here_ , because Alfred taught him better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Collaboration is an important part in crime-fighting, and-”

Jason’s laughing, and Jason’s definitely laughing at him, but that is still _not_ them screaming at each other, so it’s still a win. “Old man, I’ve been up to my literal goddamn eyeballs in cocaine cleaning out the Escabedos this past month, the universe _owes_ me a break. Nothin’ like crippling a trafficking ring, you know how it goes.”

It can’t be helped; Bruce’s eyes drop to Jason’s legs, as he tries to figure out if the slim cut is capable of hiding a couple of Jerichos. Jason catches him doing it, and his grin turns into a bright show of teeth. “If you’re looking for my friends, they’re stowed in cargo. C’mon, Bruce, as if I’m gonna roll through security with thigh holsters.”

The slacks hide no guns, but there are distinct lines where the fabric draws taut across Jason’s thighs. Bruce quirks an eyebrow.

“Loaded thigh holsters,” Jason corrects himself, rolling his eyes. “Now go and have a seat, I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind if I don’t have a welcome drink in a hollowed-out pineapple in like 5 hours.”

That’s all right; Bruce has a box full of rubber bullets that fit perfectly into any of Jason’s top 3 preferred guns. He’s got a whole host of techniques to counteract Jason’s less savoury habits, and the baked Alaska is merely the start of it. When Batman puts his mind to trying to kill with kindness, it’s a fearsome sight, and Bruce is putting everything on the line for this trip to both 1. Address the kidnapping and distribution of Cuban doctors into the world of black market medicine, and 2. Get Jason sweet enough on him that Bruce can extract a promise for weekly dinners home at the Manor.

It’s a big task, but he’s got the Caribbean and the family chat group on his side; Bruce feels closer to invulnerable than usual, as he nods brusquely at Jason and leaves the cockpit.

He’s brought plenty of reading material for the flight; a solid fifth of it are notes on Jason’s likes, dislikes, and peccadilloes. As the jet begins to taxi, Bruce neatly writes down ‘Welcome drink in pineapple (alcoholic?)’ in the Like column, and takes a moment to appreciate this littlest of little victories.

-

They separate on arrival, Jason disappearing with the ground crew, Bruce going through the rigmarole of being very loud and very attention-grabbing in the airport terminal. It’s all been cleverly planned; after the flight, they would get some time to themselves. Jason can head straight to the beach villa, if he wished, while Bruce will be going around Nassau like a very visible, very good-natured, concussed idiot. 

By the time they meet up for dinner, the sky’s gone dark, Jason’s gone a deep glossy brown, and Bruce is nursing the standard headache he gets when he has to pretend he enjoys being a billionaire playboy. Bruce had considered splurging on a fancy seafood dinner for their first night here, but Jason isn’t and has never been the type to be moved by money, so instead he comes back to the villa with a bag full of corned beef and conch stew.

Jason takes a look at the selection, and snorts. “Did you for real not get us any rice or fries or anything?” He peels the lid off the stew before the answer comes, and is slurping it right from the lip like it’s a glass of milk.

Bruce is horrified but also a little amused. It’s likely a rite of passage for a lot of parents, learning to buy separate servings so that when your children inevitably grubby up the food, you still have a plate to turn to. He goes at his own meal with as much dignity as an exceedingly bendy plastic spoon can afford.

It’s delicious, and sitting on the darkened balcony nibbling on a worryingly tough bit of conch while his dead-not dead son guzzles soup like a garbage disposal come to life, Bruce feels exceedingly human and quietly, deeply happy.

Maybe Jason hadn’t been the only one who had needed a bit of a break. There are some crises that are hard even for (especially for) the Batman.

He melts into the feeling and just listens as Jason, who seems to be in an unusually chatty mood, talks about all the little things that he had filled the evening with: how the Caribbean felt on his ankles then his knees then the whole of him, the taste of soursop ice cream on a hot day, and the absolutely atrocious carving of a monkey made of coconut that he’s bought for Damian.

Bruce can’t remember the last time he’s heard Jason sound this casually at peace with anything; it must have been many, many years ago, when Jason was in the dreamlike sweet spot between being newly-adopted and so sure that it was all a cruel joke, and when he was Robin and the desire to make the world just and fair had him baring his fangs. He knows he did wrong by Jason, but it really would be nice if he could figure out where it was he had misstepped, instead of just when.

All children should be able to sit on a beach with their parent and almost choke on beef when they start laughing so hard a bit of it goes down the wrong pipe as they recount Dick’s latest quest to be Tinder’s most popular ass shot. 

“Dick’s great loves are his family, being a good man in a bad world, and the entire region of his body between his nipples and his knees,” Bruce says, mostly an honest observation of his eldest, which makes Jason choke in earnest now, wheezing and laughing and potentially dying of corned beef.

It’s one of the better dinners Bruce has had.

-

Nips2Knees: Okay there’s no need to go changing usernames just because you two are having a great bonding experience!!

Nips2Knees: What is this even supposed to mean?! Alfred’s gonna shame me next time I show up for breakfast Jay honest to God

-

A few hours after _that_ , and the Batwing is skimming the waters breaking against the sea walls of Malecón, Havana. People are still up and about despite it being the wrong side of midnight, but the jet is also a submersible, so as soon as Bruce and Jason have clambered across the low barrier the entire ship just quietly, ominously sinks into the water.

“That’s _never_ gonna not be creepy,” Jason says, shuddering theatrically in the warm breeze of the late night.

“You never used to have a problem with the sea,” Bruce hears himself saying, and wonders why his brain hadn’t seen fit to stop that dumb little observation.

Miracle of miracles, Jason just shrugs. “There’re just a hell of a lot of ways to drown, what can I say?” He tugs his leather jacket to sit more neatly on his shoulders, looking strange and a little alien for a whole host of reasons. The white streak, the imposing build, the strange luminescence of his green eyes, just.

Jason Todd is a magnet for attention, which Bruce is glad for right now because it gives him an excuse to very carefully not think about if rebirth in the Pit counts as a drowning, and if blood flooding the lungs counts as a drowning, and if-

He fixes his wig, fusses with his fake, full beard. “Your disguise isn’t exactly Havana at night, Jay.” Leather jacket, linen shorts, a neon pink shirt. When a breeze comes by and the pant legs flutter, the gun holsters flicker in and out of sight.

They’re loaded, clearly, and not with rubber bullets either despite Bruce’s considerable efforts. 

It’s as smooth a deflection as Bruce will manage. The hook lands, and Jason is even polite enough to give a nibble as he takes a once-over of Bruce’s look for the evening. “Rich comin’ from you, B, you got a dead possum on the head _and_ the chin, and you kinda look like a depressed middle-aged man who’s gonna go home to Nantucket and splurge on a top-end sit-down lawnmower ‘stead of communicatin’ your mid-life crisis to your wife Nancy.”

Bruce self-consciously pats his padded belly, a paunch disguising enough tech and weaponry to topple most democracies. “This is top-quality virgin hair,” he defends his costume. “The Batman can’t be seen here, but what is yet another depressed man past his prime? It’s the perfect disguise.”

He can’t remember that he’s ever worn socks underneath sandals before, and this much moustache is making him want to sneeze, but a loud oversized Hawaiian shirt smoothes over the wicked angles of grappling hooks and batarangs like magic made of bad taste. It’s better than a pair of glasses, for god’s sake.

Instead of railing against Bruce’s definition of ‘a perfect disguise’, Jason just stares at him for a long while, dead-eyed and silent. “B….. B, I need you to be honest with me right now, this is some life or death shit right here. Is that, for the love of literal Christ, a wig made of your own damn hair, you absolute fuckin’ weirdo?”

“Of course. Who else’s would it be?”

Some seabirds startle when Jason shrieks with laughter, and Bruce looks around to make sure they haven’t given away their position, even if the area is pretty deserted.

“You’re a fucking leather-face cosplaying _virgin_ , B, god, you’re killing me right now, I literally know how that’s like.”

“ _Jason!”_ Bruce scolds him, aghast at he’s not even sure what. 

-

Tim D: Is everything okay why is Bruce called the Virgin now

Tim D: I can go pick you guys up but one of you is gonna have to do this art history paper instead

Tim D: This better not be you two getting high I was grounded for 2 months the last time somebody in my school smoked a joint and you two are off your heads in Cuba smfh

-

Havana’s architecturally the stuff of dreams, if you dream of human flight powered by cables and grappling guns and dapper scarves taking the place of aerodynamic capes. Absolutely stunning buildings, built low and sturdy and pretty, festooned in ornate decorations and art deco carvings that jut out like they’re begging for a hook and a swinging man.

Bruce’s clothes are double-sided, with the outside looking as pedestrian as possible while the inner lining is really the ghost of Ghillie suit futures. Where couples make out by the sea at two AM, he’s just an amiable foreign man trotting around with socks that go up to almost his knees. When he needs to get altitude or go a little invisible, it’s a little bit of indignity in an alley somewhere, and he’s off as he hopes he remembered to turn out both socks this time. 

Jason’s patrolling the docks, on assignment to trace the exit route the smugglers are taking. Bruce is reasonably sure nobody’s going to die tonight; Jason’s trigger happy tendencies are tightly correlated to the annual income after tax of the perpetrator at hand, with some allowances made for the power dynamic between the criminal and the victim. With enough time, Bruce thinks that he could come up with an excellent formula that describes Jason’s prescription of murder, but for now he’s pretty sure desperate men trying to survive by way of smuggling other men isn’t going to be a death sentence.

The kingpins in Gotham though, oh, that’s going to be a Mess.

Bruce is generally opposed to imposing justice by way of death. It’s hard to put into words exactly why that is, but it has a lot to do with lines that shouldn’t be crossed. Jason’s a lot like Diana like that; he looks at context and background and history and class, the story of a person’s life, and when he pulls the trigger, it’s with the weight of his convictions behind him. He’s the antithesis to the sort of killer Bruce would be; somebody with a checklist for a brain, and if a person passes the critical mass of allowable crime, they’ll be put down.

They’ll all be put down, whatever their motivations, whatever their stories.

He mostly wants Jason to stop killing because he worries that some trick of not-quite-genetics is going to kick into gear, and Jason’s going to become as bad as Bruce, and then where will they be?

It’s pretty standard night-time musings; it’s not the first time Bruce has thought about how not a god nor any meta-human could ever compel him to formulate a kill switch for his children. It’s not even the first time he’s done it in the shadow of a massive bronze bell in a cathedral, really. It’s a first time with a beard, though, so never let anyone say that he didn’t try new things.

A man in a crisp white linen suit cuts across the plaza in front of them, like a glowbug in the humid darkness of a Cuban night. Bruce squints, and yes, it’s Orian Contreras, right down to his glossy moustache and his leather loafers, the man to turn to if your underground fighting ring or brothel needs some illicit medicine men.

Luck’s in the air tonight; Bruce had thought it would take days of tailing the small fry before he would even clap eyes on Orian, but here we are.

-

The Vedado district is filled with terrible, no good, horrific crime against Bat-approved architecture. All glass and steel and the absence of cornices and sticky-out drainpipes, god. The similarity to downtown Metropolis is absolutely appalling. Orian, at least, has the makings of a classic Gotham villain, because he arranges to meet in the Colón cemetery on a moonlit night, where mausoleums and sturdy granite Jesuses are as plentiful as the streetlights are rare.

Bruce is sat on the shoulder of a particularly fearsome avenging angel who’s threatening the entire eastern quadrant of the cemetery, and the amplifier hanging around her thumb helps him listen in on Orian’s important and extremely dull meeting a few hundred feet away. Logistics, even the logistics of human trafficking, are a lot more boring than one would tend to expect. 

One of Orian’s men is talking about the diesel cost per square foot of shipping container when a shadow alights on the angel’s other shoulder. A slip of pink is still visible around the hips, but Jason looks surprisingly well-camouflaged just from zipping up his jacket and sitting in the odd-angled way the youths tend to, breaking his silhouette and his shadow.

“Anythin’ good, B?”

Everything that’s being said is being recorded, Bruce reminds himself when his first instinct is to go shush. Nagging Jason for shirking the docks to come by is only legitimate _after_ he’s checked the status of Jason’s progress.

A second taken to double-think things through is an hour saved of being angry with each other.

So Bruce just shakes his head. “A list of names of crooked export officers, some plans around next month’s shipment. No mention of the big players, or where they’re getting the doctors.”

There’s a sharp crack of a tupperware being opened, and suddenly there’s roasted corn being waved in front of Bruce’s nose. He isn’t hungry, but he takes it anyways. He’s forgotten what the metabolism of someone in their twenties is like; it vaguely reminds him of when Dick had first become Nightwing, and had kept kit-kats stuffed down his temperature-controlled gauntlets. Where in his costume Jason had managed to keep takeaway, Bruce can’t even guess.

“We-ll, it’s all quiet on the docks. Can you imagine, a legit work-life balance, with no poor underpaid dockhand unloading shit at fuck AM? Crazy. And there’s just less crime overall, too. I only needed to beat up like two muggers in the past four hours.” There’s a crisp crunching noise from where Jason’s sat; it sounds like a taco of some sort. “Got a list of ships that routinely go to ‘Canada’, allegedly, which’re probably our best lead for transport.”

“Good work, Jason.”

Jason doesn’t immediately reply, and they just settle in silence for a while. Somebody is politely asking why they couldn’t hold these meetings in their offices, or at least at a restaurant or something, and Orian starts what can only be a 20-minute diatribe into how he has _standards_ , and how suspicious it would be to have twelve men sitting around a table whispering very quietly in the middle of a restaurant, you _idiot_ , etc., etc., etc.

Gone to the place where Bruce is not quite part of the world, a meditative state that’s somewhat restive but leaves him ready to roll into action at the slightest provocation, he startles more than he would like to admit when Jason leaps off his perch to land with the barest of thuds on the plinth bearing their angel. 

He looks down, at his son.

Jason looks around, at this little township of the long dead. “I know some really amazing poets got buried here, so I’m gonna go for a walk and pay my respects to my fellow dead. You got shit under control here?”

Bruce nods, astonished that Jason took the effort to seek him out, and is taking even more effort to check in with him. Their villain is at this point talking about how money didn’t grow on trees, and how they were supposed to be a _professional_ outfit. The Cuban accent is lilting and sounds half-a-step away from song at the best of times; it’s a little bit of a shock to the system to hear a crime lord sing-song his way through complaining about service tax. It lends an air to the unrealness of the night, and as Jason disappears into the maze of tombstones, Bruce tries to take a guess about who he’s going to go visit. 

Dulce María’s buried here, he remembers that from his deep-dive into Cuban history and culture. Her name had been familiar; he had seen some of her works on Jason’s bookshelf way back when. He had remembered her the way he remembers the things Jason likes to read and Tim’s preferred brand of rechargeable AAA batteries; he remembers because they’re important to someone important to him. 

There’s a poem she had written, and it had stuck in his memory after he had consumed every bit of writing in Jason’s room in those early days of burning grief.

  
  


The corpse of a pond is the mirror:

It’s a ghost

Of a living water that shone one day,

Free in the world, lukewarm, suntanned.

  
  


Does Jason know that he has always been and always will be the pond, Bruce wonders. Will Jason ever realise that the corpse and the ghost is always, always Bruce, literal death notwithstanding.

It’s heavy thinking for this late into the night, so Bruce tucks the thought away, and returns to the cold corn given to him by a warm son.

  
  


-

  
  


PennyOne: @TheVirginBrucie Master Bruce I fully appreciate your concern for my wellbeing in these sickly times, and I do understand that I am at somewhat higher risk with my age, but if you do not stop making all the electrical appliances in the kitchen spritz me with disinfectant if I so much as look at them, I will be very cross with you.

St. Ephie: Yo Alfie supplexed the coffee machine when the hidden nozzle got him right in the eyes B you better watch yo back

-

Days two, three, and four pass by in much the same way. Jason goes out to enjoy the beach and hoard weird gifts for people, and Bruce sleeps by whichever window lets in the sound of the ocean best. They have dinner together, which feels a little more miraculous day by day, and then they take the Batwing to Cuba in the deep dark night. 

It’s surprisingly restive and productive. Day three is when Bruce finds out that the Contreras recruiting campaign involves having crooked Ministry of Health officials going to medical schools and recruiting junior doctors for ‘service abroad’, ostensibly as part of the important Cuban tradition of exporting skilled doctors in times of great need. Nowadays doctors and nurses are needed more urgently than ever, and a lot of doctors are saying ‘yes’ out of a sense of duty and a wary respect of an official in uniform.

He has a list of people who have accepted bribes and done the dirty, and figuring out what to do with it is still a bit of a concern. Handing it over to the authorities is difficult when he’s not familiar with the police here and won’t be able to hold the crooks or the system accountable once he leaves. They don’t have a Cuban League member, which is a tremendous oversight, so it may come down to getting the Martian Manhunter to come by and put the fear of something into the criminals as a deterrent while they recruit somebody for the region.

Orian appears to have kowtowed somewhat to the requests of his underlings, because on night five of this mission Bruce finds himself with a Cuba Libre, light on the rum, on the rooftop of Hotel Inglaterra. Jason’s not with him tonight, away with the Batwing to a city a couple hundred miles away that they suspect is the target of a lot of the recruiting effort. 

It’s a little lonely.

He’s two tables away from where the team are meeting up, sat on a comfy sofa and the very image of a beleaguered father waiting for his family to come up after him. A few days into the trip and the beard is now starting to look a little worse for wear without Alfred’s tender loving care, but it does help sell the image of somebody at that stage of their holiday where they look both quite relaxed and very downtrodden.

Today they’re discussing pushing up the shipment date, because the underground scene is all well and good but black market hospitals with an endless supply of doctors is a goddamn cash cow at the moment, on account of a global pandemic and everything. Bruce had bugged all the seats on the rooftop terrace when he’d arrived a couple of hours earlier, bumbling from end to end while ooh-ing and aah-ing as he took pictures of the city lights. They’ve got a few real estate properties that they are thinking about converting into illegitimate hospitals for the rich and the desperate, and Bruce absent-mindedly sends off the locations for all these condemned buildings to Lucius so that Wayne enterprises may step in.

If the buildings are in reasonable shape, that’s extra beds for the sick and for those helping the sick, so it’s a win-win, really. After a long, long career as the Bat of Gotham, it’s sometimes such a stupid relief when a problem shows up that Bruce can actually solve with just money.

It’s halfway through a heated battle on the importance of buying air conditioning units (“It _snowed_ in Massachusetts just last week, Nicolás, use your _brain_ ,”) that a text pops up in the family chat.

J(ustin) T(imberlake): Doesn’t look like the smugglers have a presence here, but look at this

J(ustin) T(imberlake): 

  
  


J(ustin) T(imberlake): I didn’t know flamingos existed past sundown wtf

Damian Wayne: FATHER what is THIS I must DEMAND that we acquire THESE FLAMINGOS for the MISSION.

It’s a funny feeling, to almost get motion sickness at how Damian’s texts hit peaks and valleys over the course of getting his point across, but Bruce will be absolutely damned before he brings in yet another ill-advised animal to the menagerie haunting the Manor and Alfred’s dreams.

He’s partway through composing a long, winding explanation on how the Manor didn’t have the resources to keep a flock of flamingos healthy, the numerous legalities involved in the importation of wild animals, the embargo on Cuban goods, and a dozen other reasons furnished with references, before a soft _click_ catches his attention.

Bruce looks out the corner of his eye, and sees that the meeting must have hit a snag while he hadn’t been paying attention, and now three of the five men had their hands suspiciously tucked under their jackets, right at their waists.

The bug is pretty damn high-tech but it’s not any sharper than a human’s ears, which would imply that the man with the slicked-back dark hair closest to it is the one who’s got his finger on the trigger.

Shoot-outs aren’t common in Cuba, all things considered, but if things go south here there are a hell of a lot of tourists and staff and people just enjoying a night out here that could so easily become collateral.

Time for plan B.

Bruce presses down hard on where the belly button would be on a chubbier man, and imagines he can hear the hiss of the smoke bombs expelling their non-toxic wares from where they’re tucked into plant pots under smoke detectors.

Over at the round table discussion, there’s increasing heat in their whispered argument, but it’s thankfully cut short when the fire alarm finally starts squealing.

Bruce obligingly follows the instructions of the staff, hustling along quickly so he can get changed and scale up the back of the hotel to tail the gang. If they’re planning to ship out the ‘goods’ soon, then they must be holding the doctors somewhere.

It’ll be a good job well done if Bruce can liberate them before he nails Orian to a wall, he thinks, as they head out from the Old Town and back to Verdado, home of shitty buildings.

They might even wrap up quickly enough that they can have a week or so just being in the Bahamas; it’s an excuse to see what he can do to shore up the islands for a more turbulent future. He’s been remiss in educating himself on the development of island economies. It’s definitely not an excuse to get more time with Jason, or at least not entirely _just_ an excuse.

Bruce stalks them all the way to the poorer side of town, to a warehouse where heavy-duty locks on the windows and doors would prevent entrance and exit. Promising, promising. He lockpicks his way in and hides near the rafters, as gelled-hair-man goes to unlock a shipping container, and drags a young man out by his arm. 

He’s close enough to make out the words; they aren’t good ones.

“So you’re the rat that’s figured out how to leave its cage, yes?” Orian drawls in standard villainy, coming in close to take the boy by the chin. “Do you know what we do when little rats like you try to hurt our important work?” 

Once again, a lot of hands go to waists, and the poor, poor boy shudders and shakes and _does not break his gaze_ . “If I am a rat,” the kid says, voice high and terrified and unbelievable steadfast, “you are a _rabid_ dog, you bastard.”

Style points for spitting right in Orian’s eyes, thinks Bruce.

Points rescinded for getting on the nerves of a trigger-happy crimelord, thinks Bruce, as he pushes off and swoops down as vengeance dressed like a dad-bod on vacation.

He really should have listened when Alfred said that sir should consider at least a bulletproof vest under the Hawaiian shirts, please.

-

Jason’s still splashing around the Laguna de Leche trying to take a picture of the flamingoes that is so cute that Dami has enough motivation to badger the great Bat of Gotham into bring home a screaming shitting pink bird in the Batwing, when the call comes through on the comms. 

“‘Lo, what’s up?” he answers, squatting awkwardly to get a close-up of a sleeping flamingo’s face. An absolute moneyshot, baby.

“Jason,” and it’s Cass, terse and urgent and unhappy.

Jason’s got no idea what’s going on, but it’s easy for the hindbrain to infer; Alfred not being on the comms means he’s prepping the med bay, which means an injury. This time of the night, it’s always one Bat or Bird at home with Alfred while everyone else spreads out like the good version of a plague to blanket Gotham, so that’s why Cass is there. Jason’s the one being called, which means he’s the one closest to the crisis.

It’s Bruce, it’s got to be (stupid _fucking_ ) Bruce. Jason’s racing for the Batwing before he thinks to even answer.

“Hit me.”

“No comms contact. Injury, bad injury. Alfred says, bleed out. Jason, _help_.”

There’s swamp mud on the shiny surface of the ‘wing, and there’ll be more on the interior because it’s not exactly the time to stomp around on the Welcome Mat to clean his boots. “I’m gonna go fetch, Cass, so don’t worry, okay?” 

God love her, Cass actually sounds reassured. “Thank you,” she says, careful and sweet as anything. “Location sent, Jay. See you at home?”

“See you in a bit, kid.”

God actually fucking damn all modern aeronautic engineers for never seeing fit to give jets some fucking accelerator pedals. It’s hard to take your aggression and stress out on a vehicle when all the thrusters are fucking hand-held.

God extra fucking damn Bruce McBatman Wayne, for having Jason over as back-up and refusing be backed the hell up.

Bruce’s location comes up, along with his oxygen level and pulse, and god only knows how Alfred sneaked a sensor onto a man so pro-secrecy he gets his flu shots undercover.

It’s Colón cemetery, of _fucking_ course it’s the cemetery, no one can ever say that Bruce isn’t the marquis of modern melodrama, and Jason decides it’s acceptable if he just screams the whole 200 miles back to Havana. This is his penance, for being strung out on coffee at 3 AM and spontaneously deciding to try and reconcile harder with his father.

If the man has the _cheek_ to die, Jason’s going to legitimately lose his fucking mind (again).

-

Bruce looks down, and sees his son.

Jason is cursing up an absolute storm, blue enough to potentially rouse the mothers buried here who will tut at him and go “Language, young man!”. What a sight that would be, an undead legion of parents scolding a dead-now-alive vigilante man in front of a different man cosplaying middle-aged normalcy on its deathbed. 

Wild. Bruce laughs, and then wheezes. Blood loss does a number on your breathing, just one of those things that he doesn’t often need to think about. Does a number on your ability to think normal things too, but he’s like that even when most of his blood is inside his body, so Bruce would hate to make excuses.

“What the fuck is wrong you, there are like a bajillion hospitals you could have gone to while undercover, why are you _always_ like this?” Jason is doing that scream-whispering thing, that skill learned by all night-time vigilantes, as he rips off Bruce’s shirt to survey the damage.

It’s not particularly pretty. Taking out half a dozen armed men in the full suit wouldn’t be enough to make him break a sweat, usually, but dressed like a casual dad with his centre of gravity a little off from the equipment strapped to his belly, it was a little harder.

Add to that trying to incapacitate without killing or even seriously injuring anyone while weaving in between gunfire as he kept the kid from getting shot, and all in all it’s a downright miracle that Bruce only has three through-and-throughs in shoulder, gut, and thigh, and maybe three cracked ribs. He eventually managed to subdue Orian and his men, cuffing them in an empty container to be dealt with later. He had also released all the prisoners while sluggishly bleeding out all over, and had barely been able to escape their confused gratitude.

Their usual rendezvous point is by the seawall in Malecón, but the cemetery was closer and more convenient for a dying man, you see. When he had ascertained that he had lost enough blood that he legitimately would pass out and bleed to death before he could get help, he had finally given up and called the Cave.

Alfred, damn him, had somehow already known that things had gotten out of hand. Bruce is willing to bet the beard wig is bugged, which is an intriguing bit of imaginative engineering, but even complimenting Alfred on his ingenuity hadn’t preserved him from being chewed out while Cassandra interjected occasionally with quiet calls of his name. 

Black spots have been dancing in his sight for a while now, but he’s happy they’re around the edges and don’t obscure Jason. “I like your shirt,” he manages to groan out.

Jason doesn’t even pause for breath in his tirade, as he pulls out a nasty little switchblade from his boot and proceeds to tear his pretty lime-green shirt into absolute shreds. “Jesus, I don’t even get to keep this shirt, and for what? Dumbass bleeding out, didn’t even bring any first aid for a goddamn mission.” The blood-clotting powders that hide in little sugar sachets come out, poured liberally into the latest holes in Bruce’s body, and they froth a soft pink before they start to plug him up. “Why in the _hell_ didn’t you call me in before you went full Rambo, you idiot? I thought I was here to be your goddamn backup. Was it _so_ important to keep me and my guns away from your toys, B, that you’re happy to die in a fuckin’ cemetery just to keep shit quiet?”

It is, Bruce notes with some distant satisfaction, a new record. It took them 5 full days before Jason lost his temper with him. His heart is full, even if his veins are not.

He pats Jason on the cheek, as Jason wraps padding to his ribs and immobilises the arm on his bad side with a sling. Oh, that rum and Coke has gone straight to his head. “Just recon,” he murmurs, a little stern so that Jason doesn’t pick up any bad vigilante habits from him. “To find where the kids are kept.” Breathing hurts, moving hurts, talking hurts. “Warehouse, left tracer there. They were about to shoot one of the kids.” Another breath, a cough, some bloody saliva dribbling at the corners of his lips. Pity, Bruce had grown questionably fond of his loud overshirts. “No time to do anything. Kid was mouthy, got on their nerves.” 

Bruce smiles, or tries to, and hopes the pink teeth aren’t too off-putting. “Reminded me of you. Wanted to save him.”

That’s the important part, the message he absolutely needed to pass to Jason because whatever goes on with bullets and bad guys and the Outlaws and the Pit, to Bruce all things Jason and Jason-adjacent are important and good and always, always deserve to be saved and protected.

He doesn’t think he gets his point across, worries a little that this might be a self-centered way of structuring his relationship with a man who’s no longer happy to be his son, but it’s the whole truth of the matter.

On God, on the angel at whose feet he’s huddled together, on every good thing Bruce has ever managed to do either as a billionaire or a Bat, the most important things of all the important things in the world is that Bruce is always going to try-try-try for his family. 

They have a moment that might be tender but is definitely quiet, Jason slack-jawed and tense, Bruce loose-limbed and punchdrunk. There’s a lot of noise over the comms right now, it’s too much to parse, but Bruce in his head thinks he’s wrapped this up quite nicely. He probably won’t die tonight, and if he does it won’t even hurt too much. As far as missions abroad go, this has to count as an out-and-out success.

Jason very pointedly isn’t looking at him when he finally continues with his triage, and isn’t particularly gentle though he is incredibly careful as he fireman hoists Bruce into the Batwing, whose paintjob will need a touch up from where it’s scraped up against the tops of the more ambitious mausoleums.

Putting on the seatbelt felt a lot like getting his ribs broken all over again, but that’s not really enough pain to make Bruce groan, which is nice. The air-conditioning and the seat cushions in the jet are also very nice.

He’s most of the way to being unconscious before Jason’s done with pre-flight checks and radioed PennyOne to forewarn their arrival.

It probably is just his subconscious letting him hear what he wants to hear, when Jason’s voice floats towards him to let him know that “You literal dumbfuck, ever think that sometimes I want to save your ass too?”

It’s a nice dream.

-

When Bruce wakes up, he’s on the cot in the med bay, and someone’s been conscientious enough to turn on the heating in the mattress. It feels sublime against the inherent chill of the cave, and he feels surprisingly sharp and chipper despite the close-ish dance with death. He’s hooked up to all sorts of machines, which is pretty standard Alfred, and a bag of blood transfusing back into him hangs from the side. 

If the own-hair wig had tickled Jason, what must he think of Bruce’s own-blood bag?

Keeping as quiet as he can, Bruce sits up. The family had a habit of piling up in and around the med bay whenever someone was injured seriously enough to be unconscious, and it heartens him like nothing else to see the mess of sleeping children. Damian is curled up a corner, head pillowed against what looks like a shaved coconut, and Cassandra is tucked on top of a cabinet, back pressed to the wall. Dick and Tim have staked out the sole sofa in the room, and while they both would never accept it as gospel truth, they’re both snoring lightly with their heads tipped back. Stephanie’s face is unseeable, sleeping sitting up in a hard plastic chair with her mane of hair covering most of her face. 

It’s a picture of chaotic peace.

“Hello, Jason,” he calls to the son he can’t see.

Right on cue, there’s the sound of boots trying to be somewhat quiet on concrete, and Jason appears from behind him. “How’d you figure I hadn’t just abandoned you?”

Bruce shrugs. “I didn’t. I just hoped.” He cranes his neck to try and look back at Jason, but it tugs on his ribs something awful. He gives up, and goes back to trying to keep them talking. “Nothing short of sedation would have everyone here asleep at the same time. I assume Alfred had a hand in this?”

“You’d guess right.” Jason appears and hops up onto the bed, crowding Bruce in the narrow space. “You’ve been out cold for three days now, and Alfred dosed up their pancakes but good this morning. Cass is just taking a nap, though, and you know me, I need a hell of a lot more ‘n that to take me out.”

Bruce does in fact know. It’s alarming that Jason is immune to any of Alfred’s numerous League-sourced concoctions. At least part of them are magic, because half of the people in this room have gone through training so brutal they’re immune to most Earthly interventions.

Jason’s got one up on everyone there. The Lazarus Pit gives a random assortment of questionable gifts along with life, it appears. At least he got to enjoy the pancakes.

“How are things in Havana?”

“Tim and Dick went in and shut it all down. Apparently Nightwing’s got contacts with some higher-ups in the Cuban policing and judiciary system, which I’m gonna assume is because his ass makes him mad popular on LinkedIn, and Orian’s crew got picked up. We cut off the snake’s head.”

Bruce knows Jason well enough to know what’s coming. It’s not going to be anything good, but there’s something there, in having Jason drop this clear of a hint.

“And Orian?”

Jason just grins at him, a vision in a leather jacket over a fluorescent orange t-shirt that just says _Morón_ , paired with weathered grey leggings. He looks vicious and unstoppably kind. “Like I said. Snake’s head got cut off.”

Bruce shuts his eyes, and breathes. It’s that formula, yes, about income disparity and the misuse of a position of power, preying on the goodwill of people too good to get out of the way. 

Orian _was_ a snake, and if it were up to Bruce, all of his men would have been put down too, so.

Bruce groans, and massages his closed eyes to stave off a headache. “I really wish I had a hollowed-out pineapple full of something really alcoholic, right now.”

The tension that had held Jason taut and ready for a fight upon his admission of casual murder disperses, quietly and all of a sudden, and it’s so palpable Bruce wants to groan again.

“See, I had a think about that, and I have some ideas,” Jason tells him, and even without looking Bruce knows what that toothy grin looks like. There’s the warm weight of a hand resting just ever so gently on his hip, there is quite possibly a lot of affection in the air.

He finds himself smiling right back, and it’s a good, good feeling. 

(And that is how the whole family ends up joining Bruce on a weeklong holiday in the Bahamas, with long, sundrenched days on the beach and some quality parkour in Cuba in the nights. 

Bruce gets three straight days of everyone in the family razzing him for being the only of them, Alfred’s lily-white ass included, to have gotten legitimately, hideously sunburned.)

(It’s the best vacation he’s had in entire lifetimes.)

**Author's Note:**

> [Charity request](https://cetaceans-pls.tumblr.com/post/161779740389/commission-info-and-masterlist) by my Friend of incredible quality Kuro. I've never written any type of Batman in my life, but a youth spent attuning my moral compass to Batman The Animated Series and the Justice League cartoons ghostwrote this whole thing. She asked for bonding at the beach, and I present to you..... this. Some notes:
> 
> [Morón, Cuba](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mor%C3%B3n,_Cuba) is where Jason found the flamingos, and I literally contrived to separate Jason from Bruce so that he could show up in a shirt that said Moron, but somehow I didn’t even…..manage….that
> 
> Dulce Maria and an intro to Cuban poetry can be found [ here](https://fsgworkinprogress.com/2016/04/20/island-verses-a-cuban-poetry-primer/) if you fancy a quick cry
> 
> The soundtrack was [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MJr4BnO-g4), but played on loop for 4 hour stretches.
> 
> In these sickly times, please remember to be aggressively kind to others but also to yourself, wash your hands, and keep away from people as best you can. Take care of yourselves!
> 
> \+ the genuinely incredible Vodka112 did a reading of this story and it is both 1. fucking sublime and 2. complete with sound effects and musical intermissions and it made me lose my mind mid-workday. Please go and enjoy it, link is below!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Piña Colada, Heavy On The Piñas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25611931) by [Vodka112Podfics (Vodka112)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vodka112/pseuds/Vodka112Podfics)




End file.
